[Last month] we spent time in Jonesville, Virginia, with about seventy young people, teenagers no less, and an intermittent mix of young adults and older adults, and while parts of it were multifaceted, layered with months of preparation and millions of emails by the organizers, the outcome was pretty special. Throughout the entire weekend, I bared witness to young leaders from all over the country, speaking about their experiences with God, with each other, and with their communities and ASP. And each one of these people had a heart to serve; to be apart of something much bigger than themselves.
That’s what I remember thinking the day that we all stood in a little log cabin, singing worship music, with dewy overhead lights, the mountains in the distance, and the soft strumming of guitar music filling the already full room. It reminded me of the pivotal moment that I had had when I realized I wanted to be apart of something bigger than myself, when I realized I wanted to be a part of disaster recovery.
I was living on the island of Maui in Hawai’i, and had only been there for two weeks, beginning my first job out of college as an au pair, when I was evacuated out of my new home, alone, at 2am because of the wildfires happening in Lahaina, a mere thirty-minute drive from our driveway. When I drove through the streets that night to seek out shelter on another part of the island, all I could remember seeing were fires, and the dark smoke that was being emitted, covering up the night sky from every angle. Strangers took me in that night, and ever since that evening, I remind myself deeply of the Bible verse, one of my favorites, Hebrews 13:2: “Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise.” That Bible verse unfolded before me for one of the first times in my life that night and days later, it would take the same effect.
After a few days when the island seemed ready to start recovery, one of my friends invited me to volunteer right down the road. Volunteering didn’t feel the right thing to do – it felt like the only thing to do; the only way to make sense of what had happened on this island. And when we walked in — that’s when it all hit me.
My moment happened when I was standing in the middle of pure chaos – a whirlwind of humans running to and fro in a petite, wedding venue, that had become a shelter house for making meals for the first responders. I stood there, watching as pans flew from one end to another, as someone yelled to the vans outside, and checklists laid on the ground.
It shouldn’t have worked – a handful of volunteers from all over the country, strangers no less, from tourists to part-time locals to Natives, all pressed into that tiny room, making PB&J’s, barking orders, and playing soft guitar music, while the ocean dipped behind us, letting the normality of the mundane actions create the first grounding atmosphere most of us had since the night of the fires.
In every way, it shouldn’t have worked, the lack of resource, the lack of hands, the lack of vans and mobility and manpower – but it did. We made meals for the first responders for weeks, waiting for help from the rest of the country, from the rest of the world, and until that help showed up – we did that work, together, piecing our community back, one meal at a time: one small, meaningful action at a time. Community wasn’t a choice we had out there – it was the only thing we had out there, on that island, hours away from the closet airport in California. For all intents and purposes, every logical thought process to another, it shouldn’t have worked. But that day proved to me – if there is love at the center of the action, it will always put the sun back into a smoke-filled sky.
Déjà vu hit me all over again when I was in that log cabin this last weekend, looking out at all these people, some strangers at first, who later became friends, taking small, meaningful action steps towards something greater than themselves, piecing together communities and homes, with serving hands, and serving hearts, pouring love into cups.
It shouldn’t work – but it does. And that’s why I think maybe, perhaps, the world that we talk of is movable, that maybe, looking closer every day, will bring that world closer to the surface; will bring love to the center of it all.
Chloe B.
Social Work Intern
